Desperate Measures
by Sandra S
Summary: A little missing scene from CotBP, Elisabeth's POV


Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belong to Walt Disney Pictures et al. - this is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: This is not my usual fandom. However, I had this sitting on my computer for quite some time and finally thought oh, what the heck, and posted it.

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_**A deserted island somewhere in the Caribbean… **_

The splinter catches right under the bandage and I drop the crate with a gasp and clamp my other hand over it, squeezing tight as if that would stop the pain. Only it doesn't and since there is no way of getting it out in this darkness anyway I bite my lip after a moment and bend back down to grab hold of the rough wood again.

New sweat is trickling down my back as I push and shove at the heavy crate, surprisingly heavy considering I wisely emptied it beforehand. The steep ladder is not making things easier but finally it tilts reluctantly over the edge of the abandoned storage hole of the rum runners to fall with a dull thud into the sand. Climbing up behind it I cast a quick glance in the direction of the beach and the bonfire still burning there.

I admit, at first I was terribly afraid of waking up Sparrow but by now it is obvious it'll take a lot more to shake him out of his rum-induced slumber. Involuntarily I give a heartfelt shudder.

The nerve of the man! Especially when I just started feeling pity for him. To think I'd even consider doing - doing _THAT_ sort of thing with the likes of him. Whatever that sort of thing exactly is. The nobler ladies of Port Royal only bat their eyes at an unmarried girl and make cryptic remarks they probably don't understand themselves. The talk of the servants is more informative albeit even more confusing. But anyway, how this opportunistic, lying, man-selling ... pirate could think of his own pleasure while Will... Will.

My heart constricts in my chest and I once more cradle my bandaged left hand but not for throbbing pain from the cut of Barbossa's knife or the half a dozen nicks and scratches I collected since I started emptying the rum runner's hiding place.

How fast can the _Black Pearl_ get back to the Isla de Muerta and its treasure cave? How long until Barbossa and his ruthless crew will force Will to bend over the large stone chest with cursed Aztec gold and spill his blood as they spilled mine? Only more and longer and ... all?

For a moment the island is spinning around me and all I can think of is Will: Will, the slim boy they pulled from the sea ten years ago. Will, the dirty-looking apprentice of the blacksmith, following his master around on his errands. Will, the tidily groomed young man in church every Sunday, reacting so awkwardly to my greetings yet I could always feel his eyes following me when I walked away. And Will, a somewhat wilder, astonishingly determined Will pressing his palm to my mouth to keep me silent while beckoning me into the water but shyly apologizing for the rough hands of a blacksmith not much later.

Will, holding a pistol to his own head, demanding so fiercely _'she goes free'_.

I never knew I loved him until I thought he had died in the explosion of the _Interceptor_.

With a sob I stoop and grab the crate, dragging it through the hindering sand to the pyre I piled up between the palms. Feeling around for one of the many bottles of rum I scattered between here and the trapdoor I pull the cork and start splashing everything furiously with the strong liquor. When it is empty I pick up another and another after that one and a fourth after that, drenching the wood, the trees, the sand.

I know father and Commodore Norrington are out there, searching for me, I _KNOW_. All I need is a signal high enough, long enough for them to find me and though it is hard to wait I understand smoke in daylight will be much better than a fire at night.

Will will not die because of me. I can not, I will not let it happen.

Running back to the hole I climb down into the even deeper darkness - carefully because a broken leg would be the end of all my plans - and feel around for more crates. There are none and so I begin tearing down the primitive shelves along the roughly lined walls. It is lucky the construction is so makeshift or I would never manage it even if desperation gives me unexpected strength. Lucky I pestered Lieutenant, later Captain, Norrington into showing me to load and shoot a rifle and pistol - father indulging my improper behavior with many a sigh - or I would not have lifted anything heavier than a full teapot my whole life. Lucky I do wear nothing but my bodice and shift since a dress would have hindered me way too much. Even if I will pay for that later in the gossip of the taverns of the commoners or the salons of Port Royal's high society. But somehow I find I don't care, now less than ever.

Let them talk. Yes, I happened to run around in my underwear in front of my father's soldiers after Sparrow saved me from drowning, so what? I was kidnapped in barely more than my nightshirt, and by pirates, of all things, spending several days in their filthy company. And I will be rescued wearing not much more. Let them talk. Let them spin their dirty little tales. I don't care. No, I don't care anymore.

If Will found the inner strength to break free a pirate from prison to rescue me - and I know what that cost him, I know what the realization that _HIS OWN FATHER_ was, in fact, a pirate cost him - I can not do less. I can not give less. His integrity and honor was all Will had left for many years after Barbossa sank the ship he was on. If it takes mine to safe him from certain death, so be it.

Wrenching a long board free I shove it up the ladder and clamber out of the hole again to add it to the slowly growing pile of rum-soaked wood. There is a patch of light on the eastern horizon now and by the time I have brought up two more shelves the sun has risen in an explosion of colors from faint orange over burning red to fading yellow to reveal a clear blue sky and perfect sight for miles and miles. It is now or never.

With a short look at Sparrow's outstretched form I hurry down to the bonfire and pick up a burning log. I guess the man will not stay asleep much longer but I will deal with that when the time comes. A few days ago I was a spoilt little girl with a fancy for beautiful dresses who did not care if she got a decent young man in trouble in front of her father, the most powerful man in Port Royal and ultimately the Spanish Main. Since then I have seen upright citizens die at the hand of ruthless scallywags, led the crew of a pirate ship in a fight against other pirates, have faced more than possible rape, was marooned on a deserted little island and lured a man into drinking himself unconscious. Somehow the prospect of encountering _CAPTAIN_ Jack Sparrow's wrath doesn't seem too intimidating after all that.

Carrying my primitive torch up to the palm trees I hesitate for a second in front of the pile of wood, remembering Will's terrified eyes when he saw me pushed onto the plank. Then I throw it with all my might.

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The end


End file.
